


It is Written

by Tammany



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Literature, Metafiction, Post-Series, Romance, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone tell Castiel I have a new job and a fic series in the Sherlock universe hanging fire and that I do NOT need him to come tell me stories in the middle of the freepin' night...</p><p>Castiel. Meg. Post-series. God is a writer. No, really. It's canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It is Written

_It is written that beyond death there is life, for those who are worthy._

_A lot of things are written. Castiel has never learned to approach text with sufficient dispassion to know when it’s tripe and when it isn’t._

_God has found this a mixed blessing. There’s a certain utility to ensuring one’s angelic forces are strong, well-intended, and overwhelmingly slow on the uptake: the Dudley Doorights of the Celestial Court. It makes them so much easier to maneuver into Byzantine plot arcs and Metatronic narrative diversions. Consider Castiel: he has yet to seriously question the underlying necessity of his repeated resurrections—or considered the possibility that he, like the Winchesters, is intended to fulfill the Divine Will._

_He sees himself, on good days, as God’s mourning, faithful child. On bad days as his flawed tool, broken and thrown aside, revived over and over only as an act of punishment—a Prometheus tortured by a Judeo-Christian All-Father. It does not occur to him that he and his story are a single bright glyph, blazoned across Heaven and Hell and Earth and Purgatory. That the sweeping lines of his dynamic calligraphy—the writing that is his life—might be God’s Voice and God’s Word far more truly than the scribble Metatron scrabbled into clay with a reed stylus, back in the time before time, as he knelt at God’s feet and recorded the core programs of the universe._

_It is, however, true: the angel forms the character “Castiel,” in a language much advanced beyond the ancient, grunting primitive lexicon of Enochian. Enochian is a powerful language, as low-level supernatural languages go: machine language, going directly to the mindless dit-dah-dit binary existence/non-existence of reality. You can do a lot with Enochian. But only an idiot writes a saga in machine language, or defines the great truth programs of universal meaning using that low-level code. No—you need a high-level language for that. Castiel is a single complex, powerful character in the highest supernatural spell of all._

_God takes enormous pleasure in tracing the lines of his angel's life across the previously empty, meaningless void. The layers of meaning satisfy something profound in his divine heart. The blindly faithful child-soldier, abandoned yet seeking, obedient yet without understanding. The rebel. The iconoclast. The fallen and the raised up. Human and mortal; angelic and immortal. Sharing both states. His will stolen from him again and again; won back again and again._

_God’s programs never end—or if they do end it is on a scale beyond reckoning. But when the core arcs of Castiel’s current story are finished; when Dean and Sam Winchester’s hollow-hearted, black-hole codependent calligraphy finally resolves into independence and whole-hearted love, when the heavens and earth and hell and purgatory are all busily, beautifully making a great noise unto the Lord (God being fond of words like ‘unto’), then it is time to bring the Castiel-glyph to a moment of pause and fulfillment._

_A loop. A flourish. God plays with the brush, letting his divine soul delight in his sweet, simple son…._

 

“Hey. Clarence.”

The angel looked across the abyss and found the demoness. He was surprised she was alive—but, then, God worked in mysterious ways and had a fondness for narrative resolution. He was not, however, surprised when she winked at him and showed dimples.

“You have been resurrected too, then?”

She snorted. “D’oh. Not the brightest light in the heavens, are you, Clarence?”

“No. That would be Sirius. He’s somewhat vain about…”

“Not what I meant, sunshine.”

“I suppose not.” He sighed. “I do appear to be somewhat slow on the uptake.”

“Y’ think?”

“Isn’t the point of this conversation that I do not—or not well?”

“You big, sweet dummy,” she said, with a smile and a sigh. “Hey, look—it’s hard carrying on a conversation shouting like this. Gimme a hand over the abyss.”

He looked at her, askance. “Is this another act of free will that I will come to regret?”

“Probably sometimes,” she acknowledged. “With luck, not so much, though.” She held out her hand. “Come on, sweetie. Give a girl a little taste of heaven.” Her voice made the suggestion more than a bit salacious, hinting at ecstasies Castiel suspected were not, strictly speaking, intended by the theological construct of Heaven. That didn’t slow him down. The opposite, if anything. He reached out one vast, Celestial arm, limited only by will...

His will had grown strong with repeated exposure to both freedom and consequence.

Hers, too, apparently. Somewhere in the middle of the void their fingers brushed, hands clasped tight. He pulled, and found her beside him on Jordan’s shore.

She was a dark rose. She was a crown of thorns. She was all wounded beauty. The sight of her was as sharp and beautiful and sorrowful as shattered crystal or a broken heart. He stared at her in silence, as always both awed and confused by the chiaroscuro glory of His Father’s creation.

Her eyes sparkled then went smoky. “Clarence, sweetie… remember the pizza man?”

He faltered, hesitant, then nodded.

_The moment waits, breath held, to see what happens. God himself pauses, his brush still, waiting for the art to command his hand, rather than his hand to command the art. The story tells itself…_

Castiel pulled the demoness close and kissed her with power and need and desire, hot as hell and burning with it. He was no longer the child-warrior he had been—an unmarked white page, innocent of meaning. It was she who gentled the kiss, softened it, sweetened it.

He was both good and bad; she was both bad and good. The black ink of experience marked his soul. The white perfection of courage and sacrifice and compassion shone against her dark desires. Yin and yang, the two of them. Together they compound the effect.

_God, of course, has scrawled a second glyph beside the first—a glyph interwoven with “Castiel,” with her own meaning and momentum. Together the two magnified each other, adding infinite dimension to each other’s core values._

_Metatron never did understand what I was doing, God thinks, adding another stroke to the sentence his is scribing across the page of his creation. Everyone’s a critic…_

There were bells ringing—mad peals rang out across God’s dimensions, echoing back yet another great noise unto the Lord.

Castiel came up for air, brow furrowing as he heard the music of the spheres. “What?”

“An angel has got his wings,” she said.

“Two angels,” he said, and closed his eyes, the better to see the dark beauty of her plumage.

She kissed him again.

“Missed you, Clarence,” she whispered. “Even dead, I missed you.”

He had no words. But, then, he was not as bright as Sirius, and never had been. He held her close, and folded the six vast wings of a seraphim around his beloved, only to be enfolded in kind by iridescent demon’s wings.

 

_God smiles, then, satisfied. He is fairly sure Castiel has learned enough from sleazy hotel porn channels and prolonged exposure to Dean Winchester’s earthy morality to manage the rest without divine intervention—and if he faltered, well, Meg’s well of depravity is deep and dark and dependable. Her ingenuity will not run dry._

_He leaves them there in their own paradise, to tell their own story._

_He is satisfied…but then, he would be. There is a reason he so often incarnates as a pop writer—he does love him some happy endings._


End file.
